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Drabble Vomit Thread;

Discussion in 'Fanfic Discussion' started by Jormungandr, Jun 22, 2012.

  1. Jormungandr

    Jormungandr Prisoner

    Jul 26, 2010
    Merry ol' England
    Or the stone is Flamel's horcrux, sentient (diary) or not (scar).
  2. Roarian

    Roarian High Inquisitor

    Jun 11, 2011
  3. Aekiel

    Aekiel Angle of Mispeling ~ Prestige ~ DLP Supporter

    Mar 16, 2006
    One of the Shires
    High Score:
    God damn it.
  4. Roarian

    Roarian High Inquisitor

    Jun 11, 2011
    Continued from those two bits earlier. Yeah –shrug-


    Also this contains the original plot bunny that inspired this whole thing. Basically this is quite literally inspired by the title of this site as well. ;)


    “Nicholas,” Dumbledore said with a small smile. Harry glanced past the tall headmaster to catch sight of a much shorter person, though still taller than himself. Nicholas Flamel – the legendary creator of the Philosopher’s Stone, and over six-hundred years old.

    “Yes, yes, it is good to see you again,” Flamel murmured, running a hand through his long hair, a light brown streaked with white. It was clear that even with the Stone, age was very slowly catching up with him. Though the man’s face betrayed that he laughed often, lined as it was from centuries of living, his expression tolerated no disagreement. “If even half of what you sent me is true...”

    “Let us not be hasty...” Dumbledore said, turning to Harry, looking a little spooked by the fact that he was waiting patiently by the desk. “The stone is safe, I assure you.” He reached forward, offering the seemingly innocent rock to its creator.

    Flamel grabbed the rock quickly, slipping it into his pocket with the same gesture. His dark eyes sought out Harry’s. “It reacted to you, did it?”

    “Um, I suppose so,“ Harry said hesitantly, and before he could react, he was grasped by the chin by the surprisingly spry multi-centenarian. A gleam of intrigue appeared and a flash appeared on the old man’s face for an instant, before he released Harry again.

    “Albus – I’m taking this one home,” Flamel announced, nodding confidently.


    “Albus Dumbledore,” Flamel began sharply. “I was there when you were still dirtying your diapers and making pretty pictures with materials that were certainly not meant for it, and I still know more about alchemy and the Stone that you do. When I say I’m taking him with me, I have good reasons.He grasped Harry by the wrist and pulled him up. “Come, to the floo. Can’t waste time, or it’ll be too late to save what’s left.”

    “...Too late?” Harry wondered, and he blinked at fuzziness that was creeping in. “What do you mean...?”

    “Look, Albus – you trusted me, once. Do the same, now, because I’m telling the truth – either I’m taking him, or he’s dying.” Flamel glowered. “Choose quickly.”

    Dumbledore sighed. “If you insist. I will escort Mr. Potter-“

    Flamel scoffed. “I don’t let people into my new home, Albus, as you well know. You remember what happened to the last one, don’t you? I remember that you had a lot to do with that, actually.” He sniffed. “And now – this. I asked you to protect the stone, and what do you do? You let it get nearly stolen – twice. I thought once was a fluke, but now...”

    “I could not have predicted-“

    “I could,” Flamel answered coolly. He sighed, and his expression softened a little. “Perhaps we will discuss it soon – having Perenelle away from the house always makes me antsy, and this doesn’t help. I’ll see if I can arrange for a get-together so we can discuss what went wrong, here. I wouldn’t want to stay in a row with my whippersnapper student.” He smirked. “First, though, I need to get this boy to my lab, before his brain starts dribbling out of his ears.”

    “I suppose your house is among the best-protected,” Dumbledore agreed. “But Nicholas, he needs to get back to his family for the summer.”

    “I will not take any longer than necessary,” Flamel replied. “You know me, Albus - I’m an honourable man. I’ll see that your boy comes home.”

    Dumbledore sighed, and nodded. “Go then – but inform me post haste on any developments.”

    Flamel nodded. “Come along, Mr. Potter. Don’t be tardy now, can’t have you vomit on the Headmaster’s nice carpet.” He grasped Harry firmly by the upper arm, sending a last look to Dumbledore as he dragged the youth to the floo with a surprising amount of strength. “Hopefully, he’ll be back within days – but you never know with alchemical mishaps.”

    Dumbledore grimaced. “Nicholas, are you certain I cannot help you?“

    “Unless you know how the Philosopher’s Stone works, no. Let’s discuss things when your wonderboy isn’t on the brink of insanity,” Flamel replied jovially, and with a wavy gesture he sprayed floo powder from somewhere inside his jacket, after which he dragged Harry into the green flames. Everything vanished into a swirling mess of fireplaces and a sickening dizziness.


    “Come along, then,” Flamel exclaimed as he stretched out, suddenly looking much taller than he had before – in fact, he now rivalled Dumbledore’s height. Harry followed the eccentric figure without a protest, trying desperately to keep his stomach under control, and found himself in a long and gloomy corridor with green and black wall-hangings. Harry was not worried - even now his feelings seemed muted, far away. He looked at things with a coolly indifferent air, and it was only his knowledge of how unusual that was which kept him from hobbling along like a robot.

    For a while it seemed like the two kept descending further into the earth, but the sloping hallway ended quite suddenly with a small square room, maybe four meters to a side, containing only a few large bookcases, a small desk, and a single old chair that had seen better days. Flamel seemed unconcerned as he gestured to the latter, which stood right in the middle of the room. “Well, have a seat – I’ll get you something to drink. I think you’ll need it.”

    “What’s going on...?” Harry inquired, but Flamel vanished out the next door. Harry deliberated for a few moments, but he could not find any reason to suddenly stop protesting now, and sank onto the little rickety chair with a sigh. His mind whirled with confusion, where before there had only been blank observation, a clarity that he now lacked.

    Flamel returned within moments, carrying a glass of water. “Right, I might have slightly exaggerated matters to Albus, so he wouldn’t intrude, but you can probably sense something is off in that head of yours,” He old man smiled slightly. “I’ll need you to make an oath not to reveal any secrets though, before we do. The Philosopher’s Stone is a bit of a work of art, you see – can’t have anyone find out.”

    Harry nodded slowly, and his head ached. “Alright... that makes sense.”

    Flamel smiled. “What I need you do is hold out your arm, yes. This isn’t quite the strongest vow around, but I think that insanity is bad enough a punishment, don’t you? Death is so messy, not to mention unpleasant. Now...” Flamel produced his wand, a spindly black thing, and tapped their locked arms. “Repeat after me: I swear never to tell what secrets I learn from the one to whom I make this vow, lest I lose my mind and soul.”

    Harry had already recited the line back before he caught up with what it meant, but he couldn’t muster a response beyond dull surprise, mild puzzlement. The spell, the vow, seared into his arm like a line of fire, like someone sliced through his arm and poured salt into the wound, and for a moment he felt like he would cry out from the pain. It stopped as quickly as it started, leaving only a sickly, oily feeling behind, and a thin line of irritated skin. Flamel backed away, and Harry shivered at the man’s expression; it was not at all pleasant.

    “I apologize, there is no friendly way to do that,” the old man muttered then, looking suddenly apologetic, and he offered the glass he brought. “The aching should stop within minutes, and then we can get started. Here, drink something, it should help your stomach settle down.”
    Harry reached out hesitantly, then chugged down the water in one go. The instant he did, calm descended over him, and he slumped into his seat. His eyes lost focus as they stared straight ahead, and his mind went fuzzy and indistinct. For a moment he felt like he should feel betrayed, but that feeling faded as well.

    “My, you really are suggestible right now, aren’t you? I figured I’d need to compel you into that one.” Flamel chuckled softly. “Well, I can guess whose little dirty secret you are. Interesting concept, though I wonder if he thought of all the implications,” he murmured, crouching before Harry and peering into his unfocused eyes. “So... now that the potion’s had a few moments to do its work, what is your name?”

    Ha-“ Harry’s mouth went to make sounds of its own, and Harry couldn’t do anything to stop it – the compulsion to answer was suddenly overwhelming. “Harry – R- Ha –” He frowned. “Har-“

    “I should have guessed this would happen, with that thing intruding,” Flamel murmured to himself, and he stepped back,tapping the floor with his boot. A rush of sound and light suddenly erupted as the floor and ceiling glowed red with intricate symbols, carved into the very stone. A runic net, Harry thought, and he wondered where he recognized it from. Flamel nodded contentedly. “Let’s try that again. What is your name, boy?”

    Harry answered neutrally: “Harry James Potter.”

    “That’s better. Now, let’s get to the meat. What did you do with the Philosopher’s Stone?” Flamel raised his hand, holding the object before him. “This. Do you know why it shines for you?”


    Flamel shrugged. “I suppose that makes sense. Do you know whether Albus had any idea as to the reasons?”


    “That’s good. If he did, he probably would not have contacted me, I imagine,” Flamel murmured as he paced the edge of the glowing red circle. It flared momentarily, but seemed to tolerate the new occupant. “Do you know what you are? What hides behind that scar of yours? What dark power nestled within the crevices of a wounded soul?”

    Harry didn’t answer that question. After a little while he drawled a vague ‘No.’

    “Guess that one was too vague, eh? Well, you are just eleven...” Flamel raised his hand. “Do you know what this is, in truth? This object, the Philosopher’s Stone? Do you know why it is more than a rock, why it can do the impossible?”


    “Good. Consider that a secret, as is all else you see within these walls.” Flamel stepped forward, into the red ring. “Now – the Veritaserum solution courses through you, but you are not alone in there, are you? Come out, little remnant, little stowaway... I believe that you have hidden there for long enough, and I would see what this newfangled Dark Lord has fashioned himself.”

    Flamel reached out with the Stone, and touched the scar with it. Harry’s head felt like it exploded with pain, and blood gushed down his face as a scream echoed through the room – but it was not Harry’s; Harry slumped, transfixed by what bubbled from his forehead, writhing in anguish, deformed and crumbling. Some thing emerged from his face, bubbling and frothing.

    You will not destroy me!” It screeched. “I will endure!”

    Flamel did not look impressed. “This is it? This is what the great and mighty Lord Voldemort was capable of producing? This desecrated sliver, no more? You cannot even fully manifest, can you, even if you wished to?”

    The spectre of Voldemort only writhed and Harry twitched in revulsion as he could practically feel it threading through his skull, horrible tendrils reaching inward, intertwined with what should be there. Quite suddenly, Harry understood – the cool carelessness, the sudden politeness where he had never shown any before, his complete lack of concern. It was him. Voldemort was in his head.

    “Get. It. Out.” Harry hissed under his breath, the best he could do at the moment while the horrible potion still coursed through his veins and no question was asked, while that thing still hung from his forehead like a monstrous zit. “Kill it!”

    No! I will kill him if you try!” the thing replied, screeching.

    Flamel looked a little amused, then. He dismissed the deformed Voldemort’s ravings, his eyes finding Harry, who was keeping himself as still as possible. Harry started at the look; where before there had been only darkness in Flamel’s gaze, there were now bright yellow sclera, almost like a snake’s, and their terrifying gaze pinned Harry down. “Do you fear death, boy?”
    Harry stayed silent.

    The old man smirked for a moment, and his eyes found the creature again. “What about you, perversion? Remnant?”

    The shard of Voldemort hissed in agreement, almost jubilant at such an easy question. “Yes. YES. Yesyesyes.”

    “I thought as much.” Flamel looked at Harry with that intense gaze, and they spoke of certainty. “Do not resist. If you resist, you die,” he ordered, as he reached out with his wand, touching the scar. Harry slackened his grip, and closed his eyes. The screeching thing violently protested.

    Avada Kedavra,” Harry whispered at the same time as Flamel, as if in echo, unsure of what the words meant. The world fell away to darkness.

    ---------- Post automerged at 17:21 ---------- Previous post was at 17:19 ----------

    I just saw this one. Huh. Well, point to Jorm.
    Last edited: Jan 18, 2013
  5. Infidel

    Infidel Auror

    Feb 26, 2011
    The underverse
    Holy shit, that was not at all what I expected to find when I checked this thread. Harry also trying a killing curse and the uncertainty in naming himself was excellent.
  6. T3t

    T3t Purple Beast of DLP ~ Prestige ~ DLP Supporter

    Jan 21, 2011
    Los Angeles
    High Score:
    Dude. This needs to be story #9. Like, ASAP.
  7. Andrela

    Andrela Plot Bunny DLP Supporter

    Apr 19, 2012
    Looks like Moarian strikes again.
  8. Celestin

    Celestin The Cursed Child

    Aug 21, 2008
    A small snippet to this HP/GoT crossover idea.

    A War of Magic

    Cersei knew that this day would come since the moment she learned of her uncle death. She just didn't expect it would be so soon.

    “Don't kill the bitch,” one of the warriors stopped the rest. “There are other plans for her. Much more satisfying for everyone involved than what you have in mind. Now let's just find her bastard and be done with it.”

    The group of the warriors entered the throne room and stopped. They were expecting a small boy hiding from the carnage, but it wasn't who they met.

    Cersei saw her son, Harry, sitting calmly on the Iron Throne like a king she always dreamed that Joffrey would one day become. Gone was a meek demeanor and what replaced it was a calm and focused expression.

    “What are you waiting for? Kill the brat!” The leader shouted when the rest of the group stopped in uncertainty. Years of experience in the battles let them known when the situation wasn't in their favor, even if it looked otherwise. Because what could they possibly have to worry from a child?

    “It was foolish of you to come here tonight,” Harry said. “Surrender or face the consequences of attacking the Iron Throne.”

    “What consequences, little boy? There is nobody there to save you,” said the leader.

    “I don't need anyone to save me. Just as I don't need anyone to kill all that decided to betray my trust on this night. I'm going to do it myself. Starting with you.”

    “How exactly you plan t...” suddenly there was a quick movement and the warrior fell on the ground. A sword was sticking out from his back. A moment later it removed itself from the body and started floating like there was an invisible hand holding it.

    “Magic, of course,” said Harry. “I mean, it's such a waste to have all these weapons nearby and not use them as a protection in situation like this one, don't you think?”

    Cersei could only look wide-eyed as the swords of the Iron Throne came to life. Each and everyone of them attacked the warriors, not letting anyone escape the chamber.

    When the slaughter ended, Harry looked sadly at the bodies around him.

    “Another unnecessary loss of life.” He went to his mother's side. “Are you hurt?”

    She could only shake her head.

    “Good. Wait there,” Harry said. “I believe there are few more traitors I need to take care of tonight.”
  9. Jormungandr

    Jormungandr Prisoner

    Jul 26, 2010
    Merry ol' England
    So, this thread warrant a Sticky status, yet?
  10. Deadsomeone

    Deadsomeone Third Year

    Nov 28, 2011
    I'm right here
    Some Saint's Row stuff that's been running around my head.

    “Now at the time I was bored. I don’t mean bored as in, “shitty day” bored. I mean that I hadn’t been in a gun fight or some sort of near death experience in a couple months bored. Which, I guess was expected since I’d already killed the Brotherhood, Ronin, and Sons of Samedi. Which meant just about all the gang activity in Stilwater were Saints, so I couldn’t go around hunting other gangs. I’d also taken care of Dane Vogel, so I pretty much owned the police in Stilwater. “

    “So what’d you do?”

    “I decided to get a bit more proactive in how the Saints were dealing with up and coming gangs. I picked one of the new gangs that had sprung up in the vacuum from the shit ton of corpses I’d turned the others into, and let them build their little niche. I told everyone to back off, gave them some breathing space. So, right now I’m sure you’re wondering why I’d do something so plainly dangerous, but I don’t think you realize just how desperate I was for some type of excitement. Every day, I mean literally every day, I walked around in the open hoping that someone would try to kill me. I couldn’t deal just sitting around in Purgatory like Shaundi, and Pierce, I needed to be a part of some violence, to dip my hands into my enemy’s blood. To walk towards some fucking shit stains and shoot them down, like the bastard son of Wyatt Earp and Clint Eastwood.”

    “Sounds like you needed to get laid man.”

    “Jane Valderama would disagree with you. I was meeting up with her nearly every other day. Between you and me, she was one of the better lays I’ve had in long time.”


    “She certainly puts that voice of hers to work in bed.”

    “What, is she like…you know, a screamer?”

    “Nah, that bird has a dirty mouth on her, but as I was saying; that little gang that I left alone had some retarded name like the Gatmen or something. Either way, I was hoping that they would be able to do something interesting and they certainly didn’t fail completely. When I say I was surprised, you can take it to the fucking bank, because I fought the Samedi and Mr. Sunshine was some magic shit. They do the normal things; attack some of our bases, try and break some of our shadier enterprises, Shaundi even gets kidnapped again. Normal stuff right, but the good part comes when I’m facing off against the boss man. He has this big cowboy hat and a fucking gun belt on his hip. You what he says to me? He challenges me to a gunfight and I’m like “alright”, because hell it’s something new.”

    “A gunfight? Fucking seriously? What happened?”

    “Well obviously I didn’t die, but I’ll tell what, the man was fast. His aim was shit though; the first bullet bounces by my feet, the second punches through my thigh, the third hits my gut and the rest fly by. I think at the time he’d thought he’d won, because who just shrugs off some .45s to the stomach, and he turns his back on me. Now that’s just insulting so I put two bullets into his back.”

    “You just shrugged them off like nothing?”

    "Boy I’ve survived being blown to shit. Bullets are inconveniences to me."

  11. Daedros

    Daedros Seventh Year

    May 7, 2012
    A random Dumbledore scene, with Amelia Bones as well. No idea if this will go anywhere... or even if it should.


    “Ah, yes,” Dumbledore said. “Mr. Potter is currently in Diagon Alley.”

    Bones blinked. “How do you know that?”

    “The position of the silver wibblers, my dear,” Dumbledore answered, pointing at a small whirring object on his desk.

    “Is that – Dumbledore, do you have an illegal tracking charm on Harry Potter?”

    “Hardly,” Dumbledore said. “I asked him, first, if he would mind terribly my casting of a charm to track his whereabouts, as per Ministry regulations. He was not opposed to the idea.”

    Bones again found herself utterly confused. “But why would he agree to that? If he thinks you're trying to manipulate him, wouldn't he be opposed to you knowing where he was at all hours of the day?”

    “Ah,” Dumbledore said, “that would be because shortly before I asked him, he had already discovered a way to circumvent the charm which I wished to cast.”

    Bones sat down in the chair before Dumbledore's desk, dropping her face into her hands. “You know,” she said, voice slightly muffled, “answers to questions are supposed to make things clearer.”

    “If it helps, Amelia, let me assure you that I am equally inscrutable to everyone that I speak with, and it is not merely confined to my conversations with you.”

    After several seconds, Bones spoke again. “So Harry Potter may be in Diagon Alley. Or he may not. But he probably is.”

    “Yes,” Dumbledore agreed cheerily.

    “So let's move on to the next main question: why isn't he in Hogwarts?”

    “Because he is preparing for the war,” Dumbledore said.


    “Albus,” Bones said, her voice low and dangerous, “why is a fifth year out of Hogwarts and ostensibly preparing for a war that he shouldn't even be concerned about or even really aware of?”

    When Dumbledore's gaze fell upon her, she was taken aback at the sudden age that appeared in his piercing blue eyes. His voice was sorrowful as he spoke, but also suffused with a peculiar sort of pride.

    “Amelia, my dear,” he began softly, “young Harry Potter is a hero. And it is in the nature of heroes to shoulder burdens not entirely their own.”

    “A hero.” Bones was quite sure that in that moment, she could have heard if Fawkes had dropped a single feather to the floor. “All of this foolishness... it's because you're convinced that Harry Potter is destined to be a hero.” It wasn't a question, but a statement; flatly made, and filled with a cold sort of anger.

    “No,” Dumbledore said. “Not 'destined', Amelia. Harry Potter already is a hero. It comes as naturally to him as breathing. He was born to save, you see.”

    Dumbledore rose from his desk with a certain grace that belied his age, and walked to the large window overlooking the Black Lake.

    "I have met many heroic people," he said softly. "Yourself being one of them. But you must understand, Amelia, that there is a great and tragic difference between those such as yourself who choose to save, and those who simply do.”
  12. Infidel

    Infidel Auror

    Feb 26, 2011
    The underverse
    You've got Dumbledore down beautifully.
    That line was pure win. The hints of Harry fighting off a manipulative Dumbledore, training, etc almost gave me pause.
  13. Knyght

    Knyght Alchemist

    Nov 21, 2010
    It should.
  14. T3t

    T3t Purple Beast of DLP ~ Prestige ~ DLP Supporter

    Jan 21, 2011
    Los Angeles
    High Score:
    As if that scene wasn't totally ripped off from MoR or anything. Hahahaha. Try again.
  15. Scrib

    Scrib The Chosen One

    Dec 31, 2008
    Celestin inspired me. A little HP/GoT thing set in Aegon the Conqueror's time.

    Context:I had a write-up about how Harry ended up in Westeros but it's not really important for this snippet. Suffice it to say he did come to Westeros. He made a name for himself among the poor because of the radical ideas like democracy he talked about and he earned the distrust of the lords of the West, but they needed him for the war against Aegon.

    In this crossover the Field of Fire wasn't the disaster it was in the OT. Harry, while not trusted by the kings because he can't keep his mouth shut about democracy manages to arrive and kill the dragon Vhagar and captures Visenya, even though they kill King Mern of the Reach and some of his men.

    Because of this the men feel that the gods were punishing the lords for their hubris and refusal to accept Harry so they rebel, forcing the Lannister king to go kneel to Harry.

    For any Maestar studying the history of the early Empire Maester Sorwen’s notes should be compulsory reading. While Sorwen was not present at the pivotal moments in the early days of the Dragonwars his later proximity to Jon Hill, chief advisor of the King (later Emperor) makes him an indispensable resource, it is with great sorrow that I learned that previous Grand Maesters had not only seized copies of his Tales of the Dragonwars, but had neglected to make new ones and disseminate it among the learned Maestars for their own political reasons.

    Sorwen provides insight into the great mysteries of the Clay King and his myriad idiosyncrasies in a way that is completely lacking from other contemporary sources. Why,at the moment of his greatest triumph at the Field of Fire did Harry Potter retire to his tent and refuse to come out and receive the oaths of fealty of the grateful lords of the West? Why did the man first refuse to marry Annalise Florent and cement himself as ruler of the Reach? What was the reason for the disastrous push to teach the smallfolk to read, so angering the nobles and maesters? Sorwen alone has answers.

    He paints a picture of a reluctant king, pressed on all sides by ambitious men and forced to hold the line. A man who, despite what his sons would claim, despised the very idea of his divinity. A man that was forced, slowly, through the efforts of ambitious men like Hill, to seize ever more power, believing (rightly) that he was the only one who could lead Westeros out of the darkness. And he provides even greater insight into the mind of the ruthless Hill,the staunch anti-royalist who nonetheless let practicality come before his grudges. It was Hill, not Potter,as his detractors claim, that was behind the push to expand into the riverlands.

    It is a shame,though not a surprise, that recent Grand Maesters have tried to obscure these traits because it does not suit the carefully crafted image of the Wizard-God that they used to justify their actions. But Seven willing, with the publication of this work the damage they did will be undone.

    On Sorwen
    Lives of the Potters.
    Grand Maestar Darklayne

    "You don't understand. Power...it changes you.I don’t want their loyalty."

    “If you do not take it, someone else will.”

    “Why? Why can’t the people choose who leads them? Why do you need kings? My people-”

    “Because my people want kings, they need wise men to lead them. If you don’t force Loren to bend the knee, if you force his men to go back with him he will turn to the Dragonlord, and nothing will ever change.”

    Harry began pacing and Jon watched him, wondering for the hundredth time how a man could be so brave one moment and feckless the next. How could a man stand fast against dragons and run from a crown?

    “You claim that you want to change things” Jon pressed, “Do you think that Aegon will change the world? Do you think that the lords of the West and Reach will change?” He laughed. "Why? They rule with absolute power now.Why would they give any of that up? You have to make them. Make Loren kneel, marry Annelise Florent and claim the Reach, then you have the power to act.”

    The Wizard stopped pacing and pressed his hands against the back of a chair, rocking on his feet. He looked at Jon, green eyes uncertain “Even if I wanted to I don’t know how to rule. I don’t know how to run a kingdom and there’s still the matter of Aegon.”

    Jon shrugged. “The situation with Aegon is simple:You kill him”

    Harry looked at him as if he had gone insane. “I can’t just kill him! He’s sued for peace!”

    “For the return of his sister. He still has two dragons, and you cannot be everywhere at once. As soon as he is certain that he can defend himself against you he will attack. War will come.”

    “I don’t just kill people” Harry retorted stonily. Jon stifled a sigh. Were all wizards such naive fools?

    “Aegon does. The simple fact of the matter is that one of you will have to kill the other. Neither of you can live in peace while the other survives. ” His words struck something in the tense wizard because he went still. For a good moment he stared at Jon in shock and then his eyes went out of focus, as if he was in another place.Absently, he twirled his wand.

    When he spoke his voice was even harder. “I’ve been down this road before, I’ve seen what happens to a man that kills for power. No.”

    “You surely-

    No.” The uncharacteristically sharp tone shocked Jon into silence.”I- I need to think about Loren, but Aegon has offered us peace. I won’t stab him in the back. If only for my own sake.”

    Three days later, in the snow next to the corpse of Vhagar, King Loren knelt, offering his crown to the new Wizard King. Jon had picked the location deliberately, he wanted the deeds of the Dragonslayer burned into their mind in their moment of weakness.

    After Loren came his son, Tyrec Lannister, the lord of Lannisport,limping from a wound.Then Rondel of the Reynes followed by Harmon of the Tarbecks and his sons and all the other Western houses present at the battlefield.Then the Reachmen, they all came to kiss the ring of the new power. A thousand knights and lords all reciting the oath of allegiance anew, their swords laid at the feet of their new king. All of them brought low. He had wrought that.There was something deeply satisfying about standing where lords knelt, being powerful as they gave their own power up.

    The septon took the crown and placed it on the head of Harry Potter and a great shout exploded out of the ranks. The lords knelt in silence but the men-at-arms, the rank and file men that had forced their king to kneel made their pleasure known. They banged their weapons against their shields and roared as they saw their masters brought to heel.

    Someone shouted Dragonslayer, and the chant was taken up, spreading through the ranks. On and on it went, joining the periodic clang of metal on metal to form a terrible cacophony.

    Jon had never heard a sweeter sound.

    EDIT:There was more written with context and description but for some reason I always seem to default to this sort of low-detail level.
    Last edited: Jan 21, 2013
  16. Daedros

    Daedros Seventh Year

    May 7, 2012
    Something that was running around my head today when I woke up.


    “Nobody,” said Albus Dumbledore, smiling kindly at Harry Potter, “is born with innate magical skill, Mister Potter.”

    Harry's thoughts flashed to the other first-years, from Hermione's effortless Transfiguration to Draco's Tickling Hex in the hall. Something must have shown on his face, because Dumbledore reached out and laid a wizened hand on his shoulder. Harry had expected it to feel brittle and light, but despite its weathered appearance, the grip was firm and steadying.

    “Not even young Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said. “Will you walk with me, Mister Potter? Not to worry, of course – if you are with me it is perfectly alright if you roam the halls at night. You shan't need that marvelous cloak of yours.”

    Harry allowed Dumbledore to steer him from the room with the mirror. He tried to keep track of where they were, but quickly lost track of the location.

    All the while, Dumbledore spoke to him. “Miss Granger, Harry – may I call you Harry?” At Harry's nod, he continued, “Miss Granger is perhaps one of the most successful students in your year. Would you care to venture a guess as to why?”

    Harry shrugged. He felt uncomfortable; he had never been good at tests. “I don't know. She reads a lot.”

    “Ah,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling in the darkness, illuminated by the bright light cast by his wand. “Quite right you are, although that is not the only reason behind her frankly rather extraordinary performance.”

    Having apparently reached his desired destination, Dumbledore came to a stop before a portrait of a young woman in front of a door. Harry thought they were probably somewhere on the sixth floor, but he wasn't entirely sure.

    “Excuse me, milady,” Dumbledore said softly, reaching ahead and into the painting as he stepped forward, though it and into the opening door pictured.

    Harry had little choice but to follow.

    He stepped out into something entirely alien. A sky cast over blue, soft effervescence leaking through something a little too silvery for clouds, over a small glade of ancient, gnarled trees with ebony trunks and leaves with edges that looked sharp enough to draw blood. Whitish grass lay underfoot, ankle-high, and like soft fur as it brushed his legs. Through the middle of it all ran a tiny brook of golden liquid that flowed just a bit too slowly and smoothly to be water – or rather, it seemed to roll rather than flow, roll down between the banks like syrup.

    “Where are we?”

    “A refuge,” Dumbledore said. “Or something like one. Having never properly experienced a refuge before, I cannot be sure, but I fancy that this is very similar to how one might seem.” For a moment he seemed wistful and sad.

    “It's beautiful,” Harry said, walking to the edge of the brook and staring down into the golden liquid, now realizing that it wasn't opaque, but slightly transparent – as he looked into the stream, he could see silvery fish flitting about below the surface.

    “I know very little about it,” Dumbledore said. “I have been aware of it for several years, but I visit infrequently.”

    “Are we still in Hogwarts?” Harry asked, leaning down, closer to the golden surface.

    “I do believe so,” Dumbledore said. “We are still within the range of her protective enchantments, at any rate. I believe that, to be a bit more precise, we are under Hogwarts, quite a bit below it.”

    “How do you know?” Harry asked, momentarily forgetting who he was talking to, so caught up in his surroundings. He blushed deeply. “Sorry, sir.”

    Dumbledore waved the apology away. “It was an excellent question. Perhaps one of the best you could ask. How is always the question, in the end, Harry. Do not allow yourself comfort with the answer because a powerful wizard did it – that, my boy, that is the road to self-limitation.”

    “In response to your question,” Dumbledore continued, “I know that we are within range of Hogwarts' protections because I have performed tests upon this area. In many locations protection can be felt; however, at Hogwarts, the sheer amount of enchantments laid upon the school make it nigh impossible to single out one.”

    Dumbledore sighed. “But of course, this is not why we are here.” He eyed Harry. “Why do you think I've brought you here, Harry?”

    Even more than his earlier lapse, this reminded Harry sharply of the reality of the situation: he was a student out-of-bounds after hours, who had been caught by the Headmaster. Dumbledore hadn't seemed angry, but this was Harry's first interaction with the man.

    “I've no idea, sir.”
  17. Tasoli

    Tasoli Minister of Magic

    Dec 22, 2008
    Behind the keyboard
    I see what you did there :nyan::awesome
  18. H_A_Greene

    H_A_Greene Professor –§ Prestigious §– DLP Supporter

    Aug 30, 2009
    High Score:
    Death-Incarnate!Harry checks in on old Snapey-poo and yanks him down from Supernatural-inspired!Heaven for some old payback.


    The first thing he noticed, after the coldness of the floor, was that the circular room he was in shared many, many similarities to the Headmaster's office.

    It had the same numerable, if empty, portraits lining the walls, the same worn down desk and shelving, and even the perch upon which the phoenix, Fawkes, had once rested.

    This did not do many things to please the man, for he had endured quite a lot of Albus's sentiments to last him a lifetime- indeed, he was supposed to be free of them, given his last memories were of being struck down at the fangs of Nagini.

    Unfortunately, he had either been sufficiently petrified and brought to life again at last, or else this was the afterlife and thus some form of hell.

    "Get up, Snape," a cold voice interjected before he could contemplate the matter any further.

    No. No, no, no... his thoughts flickered to dread as he craned his head around further, and there he saw the very man he had been least looking forward to seeing ever again.

    Harry Potter.

    Against his desire, Snape's hands pressed into the floor and his body bent at the waist, and another moment later saw him rising onto his knees.

    "Wait. Stay right there, just like that," Potter's voice interjected.

    He was dismayed to find that he had little to no control over his form any longer, and his anger boiled up to the surface.

    How dare you... he tried to drag his head up from looking down at the desk, and to pull his legs up closer to his chest so that he could rise from a partially kneeling position, all to no avail.

    "You may be wondering why you aren't living out your everlasting next-great-adventure right about now, Snape. Well, allow me to explain." Potter stated coolly.

    A few seconds passed before the squeak of the old armchair being leaned into occurred, and then the wretched brat had set his feet onto the desk directly before his vision, wriggling the toes for extra emphasis.

    "Ah, better," Potter said in a lighter tone.

    "As I was saying; you should be frolicking among great fields of potion fumes right about now, singing merrily about your impending, delusional marriage to Lily Evans, as you danced atop James Potter's grave."

    For a moment he felt his fingers twitch, and while grinding his teeth together did little to help, at least it gave him an outlet for his rising anger until he found a way to get out of this body-binding curse.

    "Strange how Heaven works like that. Anyway," Potter slid the chair forward and propped one foot on his shoulder and the other on top of his head, re-enforcing the terrible stench emanating from them.

    "I figured I'd drop by and see how you were coping in the afterlife, and let me tell you, my disgust just about tripled at the rooms I found inside your head up there. Honestly, do you realize how far you've gone from a twisted lust for my mother into utter obsession? They might forgive and forget, but considering your hand in my assisted-suicide, I'm afraid it'll be a cold day below before I accept your incentives on the matter as being wholly toward the side of good."

    You ignorant fool! He snarled silently. You have no idea what I've sacrificed, in her name, for you!

    "Oh, shut up. I can read your mind as easily as your face these days. My point is that you haven't proven your worth to rest, and I know for a fact that I'm not about to let you spend your time defiling my mother even in thought."

    A creeping sensation began to gather at the back of his mind the further this situation played out.

    As if compelled, his mouth finally opened up and his words tumbled out.

    "What in the seven levels of hell are you talking about, Potter?"

    Green eyes that bordered on a shade of black looked down on him as the foot resting over his shoulder moved beneath his chin and forced his head up, and a moment after meeting one another's respective gaze, the illusion over Potter's form began to peel away.

    He watched transfixed as the skin bubbled and dripped off, and the muscles and blood began to slough free as well, until all that remained were the high points of the skeletal structure.

    Those same eyes deepened from any shade of Lily's into ethereal pools of flickering black, and when the jaws twitched and smiled dementedly at him, it occurred that he was not dealing with the same ignorant child that he had known for seven years.

    Whatever creature had taken up Potter's form was something he dearly wished to break gazes with and focus once more upon his own legs, and as if suddenly released from the binds holding him down he tumbled back onto his hands and ass.

    The thing in Potter's guise told him without so much as a change in inflection, "Finally gotten a nice good luck, eh? This is who I am to you, and to the rest of the pitiful spirits still under circumstantial judgment, and this is why I can drag your hide back into the mortal realm. If I felt like being vengeful, like my father, I could chain you up to Azkaban for a few centuries."

    Wearily he crawled back up against the wall, looking away and focusing on the empty phoenix perch.

    Fear was brewing in his belly, sending it rising toward the surface and racing through his veins, until he could hardly focus on anything else.

    "Snape, you made so many mistakes in this life that I could fill a telephone book full with them. And to be frank, I honestly don't care about what you did to me, given I survived to become... this. No," Potter paused and slid off of the desk, rose up from the chair, and strode over toward him with a rough clack of bone on tile.

    "What I care about is that you have Lily Potter, and before and beneath that Lily Evans, inscribed into your mind. You can go back alone, tied directly into your life with her absence being a constant void you will never fill. Let your own personal Heaven be spent in days of constant potion brewing and regret, or whatever else it is you might have once felt joy toward." Potter leaned a hand down and the fear grew to overwhelming within him.

    It surged to the surface and he was suddenly paralyzed again, and the deathly chill flowing off of Potter's form was felt at last as whatever power he kept contained was allowed to flow freely.

    No! His desperate, unheard cry echoed within his own skull as the pointed fingertips pressed down against his hairline, and suddenly a thousand memories flooded through him, rushing and straining toward the surface as he remembered his one, true, love lost.

    And it was all swept up and taken from him over the course of a minute. A lifetimes' events focused solely around... someone, or something.

    A painful blank pressed in as he tried to remember again what he had just felt, but cool numbness began to fill it instead.


    No idea where this should or could go, beyond skull-fucking Riddle for a lesser eternity, or else waiting around to screw with other Death Eaters and such.

    Perhaps go visit his parents and spend some time chatting with friends lost in the war. At any rate, I wrote this back in '11 and finally found it again, and I like it as a different take on the usual Master of Death and such.

    Bonus! I am Legend!Neville.


    The scratchings kept me up half the night again, as usual.

    Even isolated away in the greenhouse, where I've got the thick, solar absorbent glass, the walls of an untold number of plants of both the magical and the atypical mundane variety, and my old gran's earmuffs, the scratchings kept me up half the night.

    I still don't know how they make such a racket, or why I can't ever seem to get away from it, no matter where I go on the family grounds.

    Some nights I don't even bother trying to sleep.

    Some nights I just put up with the inevitable and try to get some old, forgotten project accomplished, so that come dawn when they finally go away, I can feel tired enough physically to overcome the dredges of my mind and drift away for as long as I can.

    I don't prefer to do that, however. It's a Snape to put up with the noise with an active mind, and no matter how ill-effective it is, rolling a pillow over my head in the greenhouse is oft times better than listening to them and their thrice-damned scratchings!

    The noise had fallen off again by day break. I don't understand why they feared the sunlight, but the textbooks mentioned Inferius despising warmth and particularly heavy rays even before the outbreak, and that seemed to hold well enough true to this day.

    I shoved the earmuffs off irritably and instantly regretted it as I brushed against a growing shrieker, the vicious little bastard having snuck up on me in the night for daring to approach its domain.

    A severe headache sprang up on top of the sleep-deprived weariness, and I shoved a boot in between its lips to shut the wretched plant up, at least until I could duck down and scoop up the earmuffs again.

    The merit of throttling it as I made my way outside, seeing if perhaps I could stun if not kill the Inferi again with its wailing, passed through my head for a long few moments.

    "No. No, that never works. They have to be weakened, retreating already, for an adults noise to take effect," I disagreed with the notion reluctantly, as past experience caught up with present frustration, and I drew back the toes of my left foot only to kick it firmly in the upper vines and off deeper into the domain.

    Then I set off for the front doors and soon unlatched the heavy bolts across them before striding out into the yard proper.

    I could have taken the sky-roof and crawled along the rickety rope system trailing up to the attic, but to be honest, without my wand I didn't dare to take the chance even on an empty morning.

    Gran was testament to what could happen when things on a rope went pear shaped, and fierce witch or no, a dozen clawing, ripping hands and uncaring mouths gauging out any paltry span of flesh they could come across was not something a mortal figure could deny once it began.

    My internal reminiscence lasted until I was at the heavy steel gates surrounding the main house, and I dug within my pockets in search of the ward-key.

    My hands sifted through the jumble of dis-coherency within my trousers expanded-pockets, really little more than a set of mokeskin pouches sewn in, as I sought out the ruddy object.

    As was typical, it wasn't there. I had to have left it behind on the other side of the fence when I crossed over the previous dusk.

    You utter fool. I kicked the cold fence and felt the steal toe of my boot rebound, sending the shock throughout my entire foot. I chose to kick it again for the satisfaction before hobbling, swearing the entire time, back to the greenhouse.

    A few lengthy minutes later and I had stepped through the glass doors and begun my journey into the haphazardly decorated maze of plants that would happily eat you, maim you, tear you to shreds, and flat out murder you with their voice.

    I had long since removed the kind that liked to tie you up and play with you for a time first, given what it attempted the first night I retreated to the greenhouse, and they were the first obstacle the Inferi had to slip by every night.

    Traitorous plant probably let them slip through- it had a masochistic lust for blood that simply wasn't inherent in others of its kind, and from what I recall observing over the weeks, it retrieved little satisfaction playing with those who felt no pain and cried out merely the same noise.

    I tripped over the same shrieker as just a few minutes earlier, and this time I truly did wrap my fingers around its throat and viciously clamped down in fury. "You worthless little shit! How many times have I suffered at your roots and vines!" I screamed at it with a sort of primal satisfaction that was more and more becoming the norm.


    Never went any further than that.
    Last edited: Jan 22, 2013
  19. Roarian

    Roarian High Inquisitor

    Jun 11, 2011
    This was a little plotbunny that I wrote a few months ago (the them should not surprise anyone who knows about my obsessions.) for a fandom I don't usually write for. Since both canon characters are OOC compared to their canon counterparts in this scene (because plot) it's probably a bit opaque. But I'm sure someone can guess the fandom.

    Thoughts of the Dead

    A hunk of metal and a tangle of wiring flung itself from one world to the other – a messenger, an explorer, an adventurer.

    A connection.

    "All stations on MRO cord, MRO 8,” a female voice said at great speed. “At this time all antennas have locked up on 2-way or 3-way.” There was a crackle, clearly heard over a dead-silent Mission Control. “All stations on MRO cord, this is Nav MSA….We have 2-way Doppler and MRO is in orbit around the planet Mars!”
    Finally. Finally. Finally.
    Cheers erupted throughout the room and in adjacent ones, and dozens came up from their chairs for impromptu hugs or handshakes. Soft murmurs kept coming through the radio, crackling status reports as the first data flowed in, but for the moment the victorious spirit overshadowed it all.

    “We fucking did it,” one engineer crowed, and nobody saw fit to correct him as he punched the air, turning to his neighbour. “Sam, do you reckon I could get through to someone right now? I didn’t bring my cell, damn it.”

    “There’s a press conference within an hour or two,” his blonde neighbour said, shoving her headphones off her ears. “I swear, you’re more liable to fly the moon right now than getting to a silent spot to phone right now. Whoever you want to tell – they’re probably already following the streams.” She smiled broadly. “Stick with it, Pat. We haven’t gotten our first pictures yet.”

    “I suppose so.” Jacob smiled nervously as he glanced at his screen. “I guess it’s a matter of time. Don’t you feel glad you went for us now, instead of being some grunt in a plane, a private Sam instead of something more worthwhile?” He looked at her askance. “You know, with all that training you have, you might well end up on one of the next flights. Now that’s adventure.”

    “That's a thought,” Sam murmured, smiling warmly.

    I have been waiting for so very long. Cold. Lonely. A connection, strong enough, a connection to follow back. Too weak to travel – but enough to see, to hear.
    The short and balding man adjusted his tie as he stepped up the microphone. He cleared his throat, smiling to someone to the side, before looking straight to the press that had gathered before him. “Everyone's asked me how come we were all so calm this morning,” he began. “There's two easy answers to that. The first one is that last night a bunch of us got together and opened up fortune cookies. And my fortune, which I have right here, we had them laminated this morning, says "a thrilling time is in your immediate future." He laughed. “That one certainly came true. And the second reason is our team we have a very professional, very dedicated team that's been working for five years to make today a reality.”

    “That’s us,” Jacob whispered, sticking up his thumbs as he watched the screen. “Sam – honestly, what can be so important that you’re missing the press conference?”

    “First data,” was all she said, and Jacob blanched.


    Sam shrugged, her hands flying over her bulky keyboard as she shoved the laptop’s screen aside. There, reams of numbers were visible. “It’s self-checks mostly, but I’m getting a direct feed – if I’m lucky, I’ll get the good stuff before anyone else finds it. Nothing particularly dramatic, I’d expect.” She cracked a smile. “We both know what the press will hear – this is the interesting part anyway.”

    I waited for so long, that I forgot how long it has been. It’s been so lonely. So lonely. That blue sphere, hurling around the Sun, around the bright star that burned at the centre.

    I cannot follow the signal – I am too weak.

    I can see, though. Light in the darkness, millions of them.
    “After five months of aerobraking, we'll be able to do what we set out to do in a low circular orbit just 190 miles above the surface of Mars, to see Mars in a way that we haven't been able to see it before,” the spokesperson of JPL said. “I'm very happy to report that at the current time, the Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter is safe and stable with fully charged batteries, pointing at the Earth in full communication with us. We have good gyroscopes and a good star tracker and the flight teams in both Denver and here in Pasadena are working no issues whatsoever.”

    “We know this already,” Jacob said, rolling his eyes. “Come on. Get to the part about the aliens!”

    Sam glanced over impatiently to Pat, who sat slumped behind his screen. “You know that If there are any microbes down there, it won’t be the MRO that finds them, right? Maybe one of the rovers, if we’re lucky, but the big one won’t launch for years. Let’s face it, we haven’t really looked yet. Maybe someday, but not today.”

    Jacob groaned as he hung back in his chair. “I don’t care. I want to be involved in the mission that finds them. If that means getting involved in every mission for decades, well, I wouldn’t be the first.” He ran a hand through his hair as he looked over the numbers that flashed across Sam’s screen. “The Drake Equation, you know? I figured that if we’re going to find something on Mars, we’re basically home free about the whole bloody galaxy. If aliens exists here, even simple ones, then we’re dealing with a lot of alien life.”

    “Maybe,” Sam said noncommittally. “We might find nothing, though. Or perhaps we’ll need boots on red sand before anyone digs it up, and we’ll have to wait another century or more. Who knows?”

    Pam smiled. “Ah, can you imagine being part of that mission?” he said dreamily. “I don’t have the skills, of course, I’m just a lowly techie. You might make it, though – you’re already stupidly qualified. Imagine that day – you, stepping out of the Martian equivalent of the Eagle, decked out in a spacesuit like ol’ Armstrong, skipping around under a diminished sun.”

    Sam snorted. “With this administration? I’d be eighty before they got to that.”

    Jacob looked affronted. “You don’t think Constellation will-“

    “No, it won’t – if it survives at all. Not without a lot more commitment from Congress on a solid budget for NASA, or a massive outpouring from the public makes it lucrative, which won’t be happening. We’re not doing the cool stuff anymore, according to lay people. Constellation is a great idea, but we thought the same about the Space Shuttle. Beautiful bird, and it can’t even leave Low Earth Orbit, let alone do what we did in the sixties.” Sam sighed, turning on her chair. “Look – I’m probably a pessimist, but with the space program, that’s depressingly like being a realist.”

    “Call me a dreamer, then,” Jacob replied. “Is that so terrible?”

    “It’s not that I don’t dream,” Sam responded. “It’s that my dreams tend to make sense.”

    “Have a little faith, at least,” Jacob said, and he raised his hand before Sam could react. “I know, I know, no faith. But trust, then. It’s inevitable, you know. The puddle is getting too small, our cradle too tiny. We have to step out sometime. Why not sign up for astronaut training, and hope that fate favours you? It’s worth the risk.”

    The television still displayed the press conference, and Sam leaned over to listen in.

    "After a six-month cruise, 300-million miles plus, we're finally there. It's a great feeling. I can't wait also for the scientists in a few months to be able to take control of the Orbiter and see what we find. They're going to be like a bunch of kids with a new microscope, I think, being able to look at things they haven't seen before. And I just can't wait to hear all the wows coming from the science community, it will be quite exciting.”

    “Baby steps, huh?” Sam said, and she smiled. “I’m not promising anything.”

    I – I need someone, anyone. I am cut off – or they are cut off?
    Do the Rules still apply? Are there Rules?

    The Earth – I miss her.

    I miss them.

    I could change it. I could change everything. I shouldn’t. It would be wrong. Against the Rules. But… maybe I should. They need the push. They need the incentive. They cannot stay unprotected. There is nobody to govern the rules, nobody to stop me. Maybe I’ll even remember my name.

    I already erased time once, what happens if I do it again? What if I end it all? I cannot interfere openly. They might find me – stop me.

    Maybe – silently? In secret?

    I am so alone.
    We will move behind the planet of Mars, and all our radio signals will stop, and we won't be able to see the spacecraft for about half an hour.”

    I cannot go to them. They will have to come to me.

    Maybe the Rules still exist. I would be punished.

    It’s worth the risk.
  20. Roarian

    Roarian High Inquisitor

    Jun 11, 2011